Christopher
Whatever room Easton stepped into after he jimmied the lock on the window and slipped into the rectory, had vague outlines of furniture. Sobs floated toward him, but he stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He picked out a sofa, table, and lamp. He was in the living room.
The scent of lemon and lavender swirled in the air. Not the normal smells Easton associated with a priest’s house, but whatever.
Taking his gun in hand, he crept to the other side of the room, drawn toward the light down the hall, the only place in the house not in total darkness.
The cries didn’t bode well. Tipping forward, Easton made his way to the room.
His back to the door and his shoulders shaking, the priest sat on the edge of his bed.
“Bad news, Marion?” Easton asked casually.
Father Wilkins froze and sucked in a breath.
Admiring the expensive furniture, Easton walked to the dresser, laid his gun on it, and leaned against it. He lit a cigarette. In that entire time, the priest didn’t move.
“I’m Pounder, by the way.” He wore his colors and was there on club business. Tweaked club business. “One of Cee Cee’s grandsons.”
Smoking in silence, he watched as the priest’s chin wobbled, tears sliding down his jowls.
“I know nothing.”
“Try again. You know more than most around here.”
“Everyone who knows the truth is dead.”
Easton smiled, allowing smoke to pour out of his mouth and nostrils. “Not everyone.”
Father Wilkins sidled a sour glance toward Easton. “Obviously.”
“If you keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours.”
“A dead man can’t talk.”
“If I wanted to kill you, I would have when I came in here. I don’t make a habit of conversing with dead men walking.”
The priest faced forward again. “How do you know my real name?”
“My aunt.”
“Celia.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised the priest knew about her. “You’re thorough.”
“I’m loyal,” he said briskly. “Joe spoke of her—his niece—several times.”
“Joe Foy. The man with a thousand wills.”
Father Wilkins stiffened and he looked at Easton, narrowing his red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Taking his cigarette between his two fingers, Easton pointed at the priest. “You’re a fucking liar.”
“If I do have one of them, and that’s a big if, I’m not telling you the location.”
“Are you willing to die to keep that secret, Marion?”
He jumped to his feet, his black silk pajamas doing a credible job of hiding his girth. “My name is Michael.”
Smiling without humor, Easton met the priest’s angry wet gaze, threw his cigarette on the hardwood floor, and stomped it out. “I have a problem, Marion.”
He had several problems, but he was only here to take care of one.
Father Wilkins glowered at him.
“Bash…do you know Bash? He gets a little impatient sometimes. Like now. He just wants what’s rightfully his. You understand that, don’t you, Marion? Bash also gets easily bored, so he snoops. Reminisce. Put the pieces together.”
At least when he was lucid.
“My aunt Celia told him something very interesting recently. I suppose Joe liked to talk. He talked to you about her. He talked to her about you. See how that goes? Just a big old loop-the-loop.”
The priest paled.
Easton patted his cheeks. “But, Marion, old friend, I have a problem. We both have a problem. I need to know who the club belongs to.”
“I don’t have that answer.”
“You don’t, but the will does.”
Father Wilkins drew himself up. “You’re fishing. If Joe had claimed to anyone, but especially Cee Cee Caldwell and Sharper Banks, that I had a copy of his will, I would’ve been dead long ago.”
“He didn’t tell anyone. My aunt told Bash and he told me. Smart woman that she is, she waited until Cleaner was gone and suggested I get on the job to uncover the truth.”
“How’d you find me?”
He’d talked to Johnnie, though Easton knew better than to reveal Bash’s suspicions about the will. The stupid motherfucker would get himself and Easton killed. He’d simply asked if the Death Dwellers had a chaplain. One leading question and Johnnie blabbed everything.
Now that Bash, Cleaner, and Tío were back in Salt Lake City, Easton could breathe easier. Bash wanted him there in a couple of days. Once he finished here, he’d hit the road. Before he returned, he’d see what he could do to save Molly. Perhaps, after, he’d go to Outlaw.
The chess match between Bash and Outlaw wasn’t a fair playing field since the latter didn’t have full disclosure.
The day after Bash summoned Johnnie to the house and Cleaner and Tom Harris got Tío from whatever hospital to fly back home, Bash, Aunt Celia, and Easton were talking about the past when she’d brought up Big Joe.
“I wonder whatever happened to his friend, Marion,” she’d said. “I always thought it was so funny that a guy had that name.”
She’d gone a little further and mentioned Cee Cee thought Father Wilkins a very discerning little criminal because he hadn’t liked Sharper.
Easton recognized the name. At some point, Johnnie mentioned him. Or he’d heard it from one of the Death Dwellers at the club.
“Big Joe once told me he gave a copy of his real will to Marion,” Aunt Celia went on.
Easton had seen the look on Bash’s face. His mind was spinning.
“Probably another fake. Joe Foy had more wills and documents than a courthouse archive.”
It didn’t seem as if Bash knew about the priest. So far. Once Bash left, Easton got to work, bugging the rectory while the priest had been at evening Mass.
If Marion had the correct will—most recently dated with the signatures of two witnesses—and it proved Meggie owned it all…
“Give me the will, Marion. I want to take it to Kendall so she can verify it and save Megan Caldwell if need be.”
“Do you think I’m a fool, sir?” Father Wilkins spat. “If I had the will and gave it to you, you’d kill me and then have her killed.”
“You have no reason to trust me and I don’t have time to prove myself–”
“You’re Cee Cee’s grandson. A million years wouldn’t be enough time to convince me you’re trustworthy.”
Fuck, the little motherfucker was braver than expected.
Easton worked on borrowed time. Eventually, Bash would figure out the priest’s identity and Easton’s stalling. And Molly might be dead by the time he returned to Salt Lake City. Tom Harris’s statement didn’t bode well for her continued existence.
Fuck, maybe. He’d go to Outlaw as soon as he returned.
The priest’s phone started ringing. Walking to where it lay forgotten amongst the covers on the rumpled bed, Easton picked it up. The picture of a girl with blue hair flashed across the screen with the name ‘Freya’. His daughter was pretty. He’d definitely do her.
Easton declined the call.
“I needed to take that,” the priest said frantically. “There’s an urgent matter—”
“About Rule in LA, I assume?” He hated that the kid had jumped out the window and broken his leg, but he’d seized upon the opportunity once he heard the recorded conversation. “Which is where you will go shortly.”
The priest’s shoulders sagged in relief.
Suddenly, Easton knew what he had to do.
Maybe Father Wilkins really didn’t have the will.
If he did, it probably wasn’t in the rectory.
Bash would realize that, too. But torching the place hopefully slowed shit down until after Easton’s trip return from Salt Lake City.
Hopefully, he’d discover he was blowing shit out of proportion and his goddamn imagination was running wild. Mom always said he was a creative child with an overactive mind.
He picked up his gun and waved it toward the closet. “Take as many clothes as you’d like. Mementos. Whatever you can fit in your luggage. Later today, when you’re already in LA, this place goes up in smoke.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Does it matter? You want to be with Rule, anyway. Misplaced guilt? I just can’t figure out if it’s because you couldn’t help Joe Foy or you couldn’t raise your children.”
“My reasons are my own.”
Easton nodded. “Same, Marion.”
“I suppose this conversation stays between us?”
“Do you want anyone else to know?”
The priest released a heavy breath. “I wondered if I shouldn’t just confess all to Outlaw.”
“See to Rule for the time being,” Easton advised. “Wait until I contact you again before you make such a life-threatening decision.”
Defeated, the priest nodded and began gathering what he could.
Twenty minutes later, Father Wilkins threw two designer suitcases in the back of his Escalade, then opened the driver’s side door.
“Marion?” Easton called. “I’m helping you. Saving your life. At least fucking tell me if Meggie owns the fucking club.”
“I never read the documents Joe left with me, but I see no other reason everyone is after her.” The priest smiled thinly. “I only hope it isn’t too late to save her.”
“You could’ve given it to Outlaw.”
“And I could die, sir, which I have no interest in doing. The world would be lost without me.”
Lifting his chin, the priest got into the SUV and sped away.
Arriving at the hospital to take his wife and daughter home lifted a weight off Christopher’s shoulders.
For now, he felt it safe enough for them to be outside the secure walls of Hortensia General.
After he listened to the video again, though he’d had the screen turned the fuck away, he realized Megan didn’t own the club.
Besides, his woman wanted to come home, so Christopher relented.
The anger he’d carried inside him for days burst, and he regretted the whiny, insecure motherfucker he’d been.
He still didn’t agree with Kaia and Bishop working in their house, but he’d let it go for now. After all, his woman had used his motherfuckery to outwit him. That made Christopher so fucking proud.
Once Christopher killed the engine to Megan’s Lexus, he got out of the SUV and went around the the passenger side. While Mort, Digger, Val, and Stretch parked their rides, Christopher got Megan’s big bouquet of flowers.
He intended to beg her forgiveness, and hoped the flowers broke the ice, expressing his happiness, relief, and gratitude.
“Prez, you been hitting Aunt Mary?” Digger asked, guffawing. “You smile any wider while you staring at those flowers and I might have to ask if you need a private room.”
Christopher flipped off his Sergeant-at-Arms. “I’m just thinkin’ about my girl.”
“We can all breathe easier now that Meggie and Reb coming home,” Mort said happily.
“Before you know it, Rule’ll be back too,” Val said.
Christopher nodded, ignoring the unease stirring in his gut. He hadn’t heard from Wilcunt or Freya about Rule. His boy had been in California for almost four days now. He’d given them a pass for the first two days, figuring Rule and Freya needed to settle in.
Since early, Christopher had been calling the fat little motherfucker. Once Christopher got Megan and Rebel comfortable, he’d ride to the rectory.
“Here.” Christopher held out the bouquet to Digger. “I need a cigarette. You drop those expensive motherfuckers and I’m gonna karate chop you.”
“You don’t even know martial arts, Outlaw,” Digger grumbled, but accepted the bouquet with care. “That mean your threat baseless.”
Christopher lit his smoke before he answered. “How about if you fuck up my woman bouquet, I’m gonna shoot the fuck out of you? Fuckin’ good efuckinuff for you, assfuck?”
“Perfect,” Digger said weakly, ignoring the disapproval on Mortician’s face.
A whirring sound emanated from Stretch’s cut.
Val frowned.
“Why the fuck the fire alarm goin’ off?” Christopher demanded, tossing his cigarette since it seemed as if more bullshit was about to kick off.
Stretch took out his phone and looked at what the fuck ever. His bulging eyes and gaping mouth told Christopher it was even worse than he fucking imagined.
Stretch held up his phone and revealed a raging inferno. “The rectory’s on fire.”
Wilcunt’s ringtone cut through the shocked silence.
Christopher sagged in relief, which both shocked and annoyed him. No fucking way would he admit to the priest he’d felt a moment of grief while fearing the worst.
“What the fuck happened?” Christopher didn’t have time for pleasantries, especially now. “Lemme get Megan and Rebel home, and I’ll head your way to assess the damages. And why the fuck I ain’t got a fuckin’ update on my boy?”
“That’s who I’m calling about, Outlaw.” The priest sounded tired and defeated. “I don’t care that the rectory burned.”
What the fuck was wrong with that statement? Christopher narrowed his eyes. “Motherfucker ain’t burned. It’s fuckin’ burnin’. Don’t fuckin’ tell me you fuckin’ set your goddamn house on fire for insurance, you crooked lil’ fuckhead.”
“Outlaw! I left just after 1AM this morning to head to Los Angeles.”
What the fuck was he missing?
“Why?” Christopher grouched.
“There’s been a development regarding Rule,” the priest responded woefully.
Christopher tensed. “What fuckin’ development. Where my boy?”
“He…the place he was brought to…Freya found him in a bad way.”
Horrible images rose in Christopher’s mind. A botched hanging. Slit wrists from an obscure object. “Is he…is he alive?” he whispered, sick to his fucking stomach.
“He’s alive, Outlaw. He jumped out of the window. Freya found him tied up.” A little sob escaped the priest. “He broke his leg and has a concussion.”
“Freya left my kid? I’m payin’ that cunt to keep her fuckin’ eyes on him at all fuckin’ times—”
“You will not disparage her,” the priest said heatedly. “She bears no blame in this. You’re the guilty party, so you’re lashing out. If you would’ve helped your son sooner, he wouldn’t have risked death by jumping out of the window.”
Wilcunt disconnected.
“What happened, Outlaw?” Val asked. “Is Rule okay?”
“Fuck,” Mort said, sighing. “How we telling Meggie girl?”
Christopher snapped to attention, Wilcunt’s words stuck on repeat in his head. Rule jumped out of a window.
His anger and guilt rushing back, Christopher zeroed in on the flowers, snatched the bouquet from Digger and pitched that motherfucker, not flinching at the shattering of the expensive vase.
Just fucking furious all over again.